Unkempt Sin
by Farferello-Crawford
Summary: Aya and Farfarello meet in a bar. They talk about life, love, sex, and what it is to be owned by Crawford


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Title: Unkempt Sin

Rating: R

Summary: Farfarello meets Aya in a bar. They discuss life, love, and Crawford's own brand of love and sex.

Pairings: Aya/Farfarello, Crawford/Farfarello, Past Crawford/Schuldig, Past Crawford/Ken, Unrequited Schuldig/Farfarello

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Unkempt Sin

I close the door behind me and leave him in the darkness, wanting him so bad that my body aches in need and frustration. I can feel the light burning in my cheek, but really it's just a twitch of muscles, the ghosting sense of pain I should know and have at this moment but I don't.

He turned me away without a thought, unhappy with my work today. He hates how I react to him, that I don't give in to his every will and want like a lapdog, waiting for its next command from its cruel master. Fearing, hating, and yet loving all the same. 

I believe he's slowly going mad like the rest of us, Schuldig warns me away from him, he's suffered Crawford's –love- first hand, I saw the bruises, the cuts, I have them myself.

He marks me, cutting to my very core, and yet I find no strength to stop him or to turn away.

No matter what Schuldig says, no matter what he tells me, I thought I could understand Crawford. His need, his desire, his fight to live and make something of this world. We all thought we knew him, but we were kidding ourselves.

Once again I find myself travelling to the small bar, at the back of a hotel in some dusty, dirt trodden alley. Where most men wouldn't tread in the light of day, yet alone at night, where anything could be lurking in the shadows. 

But I know what hides here. 

I'm not a normal person, or a tourist who's wandered into the wrong street at the wrong time. I've seen many come, but not so many leave, and I know their blood stains my hands, as well as the others' that wait in the dark.

I don't know what drew me back here. 

When I got with Crawford, I stopped coming. I was somehow worried that he would find out about my meetings and the people who I spoke to. I know he can control what I do quite simply. I know I can't trust him, no matter how many times I kid myself that I can. 

I enter, and red hair that looks like blood, black leather, and startling violet-blue eyes peer at, and great me when I step inside the darkened bar. 

He glances up. 

They are bright, almost glowing in the shadowy darkness. He could disappear, sink into the shadows and I know I wouldn't find him again, I know that he would find me though, no questions asked.

We're not friends, not even close. 

But here we can get away from our lives, the people in them, and our duties to either side. The ashtray that sits besides him is already overflowing with cigarette butts, this bit of information for my gaze only, and I have to wonder if the rest of the kittens know about his smoking habits. If they're aware of how close their leader comes to the enemy with no blades and thoughts of death and murder imprinted on his mind.

Instead it niggles at the back of our minds, locked away and keeping us on our toes. We know we are not friends, we never could be.

I know more about him than he realizes.

I'm sure Kritiker filled him in on all of us, my furtive glances, and information gathering had to be done more quietly, from fear that someone would find my interest in the red haired kitten, to much. When Nagi was charged with finding anything he could about them all, I listened as he spoke, glanced at the computer screen that glowed at me in the night. I don't know what drew me to him, but his fascination with death and blades, it was more than I could hope for.

And that, perhaps, is why I am here tonight. There are no solutions to the problem at our hands, and I seem to understand that, even if I do nothing to finalize and end this problem that plagues me when I sleep at night. I don't want answers or excuses and I don't want to be told what measures to take and who I should be, or what I should do. 

I just want to understand, for them to let me be who I am without trying to analyze me. I need someone to tell me what I'm not allowed to know, and why I'm not trusted with this information that everyone else seems to have. I need this because I am not prepared to walk away. I take the abuse, because some sick part of me thinks that Crawford, deep down inside is in love with me. The fact I love a man I should hate, who locks me up and keeps me drugged, disgusts me, yet I am unable to stop it.

Perhaps I am unwilling to.

He looks me up and down as I walk closer, smirks, and flares his nostrils slightly, as if scenting me. I do the same to my victims, or those I find interesting. You can tell a lot about a person from there smell. He smells of cigarette smoke, alcohol and sex. I'm also sure there's a lingering smell of sex that clings to his clothing. And then his eyes widen, and I feel a shiver run down my spine because he knows. He can smell Crawford. No one thinks I know, but I do.

I know he and Crawford fucked on at least one occasion. I could smell him on our leader. I can smell them all, each and every one when I fight them; so far I can distinguish most of them. Even after weeks of hiding it from my team-mates, not only does Schuldig know, but now the enemy, now Abyssinian knows. From my entire pretence, and their accusations, I can't hide the truth.

He says nothing as I lay my rain-soaked jacket over a nearby chair and order a drink. Only when the waiter draws his attention does his eyes move towards him, and he finally speaks. His voice sounds almost like a purr, and I wonder if I'm hearing things.

"Keep them coming." 

We're not going to get out of here sober. And perhaps that's for the best. When the waiter brings the bottles, he takes a sip of his, his eyes never leaving mine, not even a blink. He rolls the bottle between his fingers and watches me. I clutch my own drink and sit opposite, taking a deep gulp as I wait for him to speak.

"Gone 'round the bend, has he?"

He asks, eyes flickering to the cut on my cheek, and I can't help but glare at him, not wanting to talk about it.

"You could say that." 

He chuckles. "Just a matter of time, really." 

He drains the rest of his beer in one long gulp. I hate his smugness, his knowing of my situation, the feeling of helplessness as I watch him.

"It's driving you crazy, isn't it?" he says with a malicious grin, motioning for another drink.

"Never expected this did you?" He asks, his smirk growing wider as he watches my hand tighten around the bottle in my hand.

"That's enough," I say angrily, trying not to raise my voice. He knows how to get to me, and I hate it. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," he purrs, curling his lips into a sarcastic smile. I hate the self-satisfied grin. It pisses me off, makes my blood boil and he knows it.

"Did I hurt the little madman's feelings? Did I remind him that his –boyfriend- is nothing but a sadistic whore?"

I take a deep swallow of my drink. "You're not helping." Any tighter, and my hand would be smashing the bottle, but it's better than wrapping it around Aya's neck.

"Terribly sorry." 

He doesn't mean it, and I watch as he taps another cigarette out of a nearly empty packet and sticks it between his lips.

"It's not your fault, you know, he was like this with all of us." 

"I never thought it was," I retort defensively. 

I try not to let the knowledge of Crawford's previous lover's filter through my mind. He has had many, both Weiss and Schwarz. He doesn't care where he puts his dick, and that thought hits a nerve. If he can fuck them, he can fuck someone like me. I remember our first time together. He tied me down and beat me, making sure I was in no position to hurt his precious skin as he fucked me into the mattress before tossing me out of his room.

He smirks and lights his cigarette, he knows he's getting to me.

"Of course you didn't." 

I ignore him and stretch out my arm to set my beer bottle on the table and wince slightly. I don't necessarily feel the pain, but I do recognize the pull of muscle and tenseness of my injured shoulder. I thought I'd covered it but he noticed. Eyes like a hawk.

"Crawford do that?" 

"No," I say, and use my uninjured shoulder to pick up my beer again, and drain it dry. I know the arm, along with the gash on my face will heal quickly. I think Crawford likes that about me.

He raises an eyebrow, not believing my words for a second. 

"But," I say with annoyance, "he could have prevented it." 

Crawford knew we were outnumbered that night but it didn't matter. He had two full clips of bullets, I'd lost my knife somewhere in the fight and I was surprised I didn't come out of that building with a broken arm or worse.

"He should have prevented it," he amends pointedly. 

"I would have called you out as soon as it got to heavy".

"Perhaps." I say. 

That is where the two leaders of Weiss and Schwarz end in their likeness. Aya would have aborted the mission at this time to save his men. Maybe in the future that will change.

"It's his bloody job, isn't it? Do what you have to, kill who you need to, but watch your men whilst doing it. Because as soon as you loose them, you have nothing."

I'm jealous that he cares about his men. Both to Crawford and to Esset, we are expendable. Many more men can be found with gifts and powers like ours, but perhaps they'd be more mentally stable. 

"So, when's it end?" he chuckles, leaning across the table towards me. "When you're all dead? When he is?" 

My gaze falls on the smoking cigarette, which is now a tower of ash, precariously leaning on the edge of the cigarette.

"When you are, I suppose. When we are no longer needed". I shrug, wondering where this was going.

"Never going to happen". He mutters, looking directly at me, making me shift nervously. "Esset will never let you go, and neither will he".

I watch him, starting on my third beer. 

"Like Kritiker will ever let any of you go, outside of death?"

He smirks at me, amused by my response. "Touché".

I go quiet, allowing the atmosphere of the smoky bar to sink into my pores and drown out my senses. He seems happy to remain quiet however briefly, drinking and watching me. I hazily remember him stubbing out his cigarette.

"I'm going to give you some advice". He leans forwards again and I notice his tongue flicker at the rim of the bottle he is holding. I know he's teasing me, he wants a reaction.

"What's the advice then?" I'll humor him until I bore and grow tired of his games.

"Let it go".

"Huh?"

"Let it go. Let him go. The only thing you'll get out of this is a broken heart, and a couple of broken bones. He cares about no-one but himself".

I want to ignore him, to laugh in his face, but he's been on the receiving end, and I've already had this talk with Schuldig. He thinks I don't know, but I know he watches me, I can feel his gaze on me when I walk out of the room, and I can sense his anger when I leave Crawford's bed at night. He wants me, but I don't want him. 

I never have. 

I value our shaky friendship too much to bring him to my bed.

Looking up from his now empty bottle, Aya's voice is careful and measured.

"He destroys everything he touches, and he's not worth it. No matter how good the sex is, no matter how much you think you can change him. He can't love you. He's to selfish." 

I set my bottle down on the table and stand up abruptly. "I'm leaving." I know it's true, and it's why I want to run away, to block him out.

I like my fantasy world.

He reaches out and seizes my wrist in strong fingers. So tightly that I can feel the bones grinding together, and I know by morning I will have bruises in the shapes of his fingers. He senses my anger and fear, he won't let me run away and let myself hide from this problem, and I hate him for it.

"Sit down".

And I do so automatically. Four months after taking Crawford's every order, I seem to be whipped for everyone else.

"I'm only going to explain this once," he says tiredly, his eyes almost shining in the darkness of the room.

"I really don't like you all that much. But I've seen this happen one too many times and sometimes after watching the same soap opera play out over and over again, it gets bloody annoying." 

I'm reminded that he knows all to well. I caught Crawford fucking Siberian, maybe six months ago before he moved onto me. Crawford's had his sticky fingers in nearly everyone, literally. 

I nod silently and he releases my wrist. It's not even worth denying anymore. I was just the next person on Crawford's list of fucks, and I wonder how soon I will be replaced.

"You love him, don't you? Think you do anyway- not that you'd know the difference. You think that you know what love is? None of us do really. We think we do but we don't. How could we? If you think that he can feel anything even remotely resembling love, then you are kidding yourself. He's been fucked with, and fucked over his entire life, nearly thirty years of emotional baggage you're dealing with there, and you're to fucked up yourself to see what's really going on".

"And I suppose you do?" How dare he say this to me, it angers me more that it's the truth.

"You're in way over your head and there's nothing you can do for him anymore, except be there for him to take his anger out on, and be a warm body to fuck until he moves on."

"So that's what you would do?" I say flatly. "Just walk away." 

"You know what I did. I just took it until he called it off and went on his merry fucking way". His eyes meet my single amber gaze, and I shiver. It's like he's reading my soul, I didn't think mine even existed.

"But if I were in your position now, I'd end it now before you get any more attached. I don't think a knife to the balls would do any harm either". He smirks, and I return the expression with a slight curve of the lips, my own twisted smile.

I swallow thickly. Perhaps he's right. Perhaps I've no idea what I'm talking about and I should want no part of this. But there's a yearning that goes deeper than rationality, or my survival instincts. The urge to be possessed. 

To be his. 

For him to want only me. 

"But I can't, you see? He's everything. He demands your attention, and makes you want him, makes you desire and need him".

I know I could spend the rest of my life pining after him if I don't do something. I can't figure out how the fuck this happened, and it confuses me. I bury my head in my hands and start to tremble. I feel pathetic, and my enemy is watching me fall apart.

"That's the way it usually works." He says quietly, and I lift my head enough just to meet his gaze, and for the first time I feel like I'm drowning in those depths.

There is a movement beside us and when I lift my head, there is a bottle of vodka on the table. I guess he does understand, he's been through it himself. Perhaps I really can drown my sorrows in the clear liquid besides me.

"Have a drink." 

I pour myself a shot and swallow it quickly. Repeating the action, two, three times, before I forget.

"Have another." 

I comply, looking back up at him to discover that he is watching me with something that appears close to sympathy... maybe he's getting me drunk to make me an easy target later but I really don't care right now. 

I notice that he doesn't take a sip, and realize that maybe he is waiting to kill me. I then wonder would anyone cry for me if I did. Would anyone care?

"It's probably to late for you to get away from this intact". I try to focus as he talks, my head spinning.

"You think this is love but it isn't, it's being broken slowly until you have nothing". He doesn't meet my gaze. We've both been fucked over by the American.

"He wouldn't do that to me, he…"

"He what? He loves you? Don't fool yourself Farfarello. Crawford is a whore, I only wish I had realized this sooner". He sounds bitter and angry. I can't blame him.

"You don't understand". I try to protest, my hands clenching around the bottle and glass I am holding and I can briefly feel the glass smash and then a slight warmth wash over my fingers. I ignore my blood and the mess, and the vodka and broken glass.

"I understand fully well. You can let him take you; you can let him fuck you. You can fuck him for all I care, but you will never have what you want from him".

I look away and growl softly. "I'm perfectly aware of that".

I can sense his smirk in his voice. "Are you? It doesn't seem like it to me. You are still fooling yourself". 

His eyes flicker to my bloody hand, and I know I'm already receiving looks from the patrons in the bar but I refuse to acknowledge them.

"Leave it alone. It hurts and you don't want it. Have you not suffered enough?"

How dare he think anything of me, presume things that even I don't understand.

"You can't presume what I think, you can't…"

"I've been there already remember, I know". He prizes the bottle from my hand and pours himself a drink. 

"I remember what it's like to be with him, all of that power and danger rolled into one, never knowing if I'd make it out alive. It made me feel free… human".

He sighed, pouring himself another.

"And that isn't enough?" I asked him quietly.

"No it isn't, it never will be, and sooner rather than later, you'll be tossed aside like the rest of us". I wish I could ignore that claim but I know it's true. I'm not that naïve.

The fact that he is throwing this in my face, giving me no time to reply is what makes me stand. It's the truth but I can't accept it. I stand up, throwing a handful of bills on the table, and grab my coat. The alleyway is cold, and I can smell the rain. Its left its musty scent and puddles, soaking your feet as you walk, chilling you to the bone. 

Before I have a chance to blink he is there. 

Silent, stealthy, and stalking towards me with intent, forcing me to back away until my spine presses against the building's wall. I could fight him, but I'm unarmed, I know he is also, but my hand is bleeding, and my shoulder in not the best condition. An unfair fight.

"So pretty." 

His voice draws the words out and gives them form. He makes them stand out, bend to his will. He chuckles deep in his throat as I flinch, his gloved fingers tracing down the side of my cheek, over the open wound. 

"So pretty with your golden eye, your white hair and your angelic features. You scar yourself, sculpt a new you out of your flesh, and yet even now you still look like a fallen angel, abused and cast aside. I remember what it was like to be with him. Does he make you enjoy it; do you bleed for him?

"Leave me alone". My voice trembles slightly, my cheeks flushed, from the cold I tell myself, but it's really from Aya's purr. No one has called me pretty before.

He pushes me back against the wall, pinning me easily. I don't know if I could break away, right now I don't know if I want to.

"You like to be his bitch, you think you deserve his kind of love, this pain. It makes you feel alive. It makes you feel human doesn't it?"

I feel myself nod slowly, staring into his eyes. It's true in some sick way. I can't feel pain, throughout my life I've done everything I can to make myself feel something.

"He'll take you to pieces, rip you apart, and leave you a hollow shell. He abuses and hurts everyone he comes into contact with. All he knows how to do is take".

"You don't know…" I try, but he pushes me against the wall harder, his knee coming up between my legs and rubbing hard against me, making me groan in surprise.

"Don't tell me I don't know. You're still blind; I'm the one who knows. Schuldig knows, Ken knows, and soon you will know. He calls the shots, he is in charge, and soon he won't give a fuck about you".

He presses his body to mine and I can feel his hardness, I struggle slightly and he wraps his arms around my shoulders, burying his face against my throat.

"I know what you want, you want me to fuck you senseless, rip your clothes off and make you feel alive. You want me to hurt you like he does".

He pulls back then, smirking, watching me quietly. 

I take a deep breath, panting in shock, and to my shame, arousal. Leaning close again, he takes my bleeding hand and licks my fingers free of the blood.

"This isn't about any of us, just him. When he leaves you for another, come see me".

Pressing his mouth to mine, he bites my lip and I can taste my blood, along with the smoky and exotic taste of him. When I open my eye again, not realizing I'd closed it, he is gone.


End file.
